Maybe I died earlier tonight, and I’m in heaven. Because this has to be the most beautiful goddamn sight I’ve ever seen.
She rides me like she’s determined to break me, her nails gripping my chest, leaving little half-moons in their wake. Every thrust drives me deeper inside her, and I groan.
“Fuck,” I grit out, grabbing her hips, trying to guide her pace, but she swats my hands away.
“Don’t,” she pants, strands of sweat-dampened hair clinging to her cheeks. “I’m not done with you yet.”
If I didn’t die earlier, she might kill me now. She grinds down, rolling her hips until my vision whites out. My alpha howls inside me, demanding I flip her, pin her,claimher. But the vision of her on top, using me like this, has me wound so tight I can barely breathe.
She leans forward suddenly, bracing her hands on either side of my head in a mirror of how I did her earlier. Her breasts brush against my chest as she slams herself down on me again and again. Her scent thickens, coating the back of my throat, and it’s all I can do not to bite her.
“Ava—” I choke out, warning, plea, threat. I don’t even know.
“Shut up,” she snaps, but her voice breaks on a moan as she clenches around me.
That’s it. My hands clamp down on her ass, dragging her harder against me as I thrust up to meet her, each stroke deeper, rougher, my knot swelling and pressing hard at her entrance. She cries out, back arching, and then she’s coming apart above me, spasming so tight around my cock I lose it completely.
I roar her name, bucking hard and spilling into the condom as my vision goes black. The world narrows to the sounds of her cries, the feel of her body writhing on me, and the scorching heat of my release.
We collapse together, her chest heaving against mine, sweat slick between us. My alpha is still snarling for more, for the knot, for the bite, but I force him down.
For now, this is enough. It has to be enough.
Chapter Seven
Ava
I stare at myself in the mirror. I just finished my shower and need to get dressed to head to the courthouse, but for the first time, I’m dreading it. My body is littered with fingertip-sized bruises and hickeys. Luckily, none of them will show when I’m dressed. Right now, though, I can see every one.
Mark and I fucked twice more before I left last night—or, I suppose, this morning. Knowing I was going to see him in court in just a few short hours had filled me with more anxiety than I knew what to do with. So the moment he’d fallen asleep, I’d made my escape. Poor Tony had been asleep in the front seat when I took my walk of shame back to the car. He hadn’t said a word, God love him, just looked me over and grunted beforedriving me home.
I flex my shoulders experimentally and wince. Every movement reminds me of him. I’m sore in ways I have only ever felt when leaving a heat clinic.
I haveneverhad sex like that. I don’t let men take control during the rare times I actually sleep with someone for fun and not just because I’m in heat. Given what happened at the clinic, I thought I would be completely sex-repulsed. I haven’t been with anyone since. But with Mark, when he threw me on the bed and told me to take off my clothes, the urge to roll over and present to him was so intense that I was helpless not to submit.
What now?
We obviously can’t do it again. I still can’t stand him, and at the very least, he associates himself with people that would prefer to lock omegas away unless we are needed for cleaning, child-rearing, or breeding.
What if he wants to have a serious talk? Or worse, want to become an “item”?
I had wanted so desperately this morning to curl into his side and go to sleep. I don’t sleep anywhere outside of the safety of my apartment or my office—the two places I have nests.
That terrified me.
I towel off the last damp strands of hair and pull on a blouse and skirt that hide everything, but make me feel like a competent adult again. Competent and sore. Mostly sore.
My omega whines that his scent is barely lingering on me after the shower, and when I spray my scent neutralizer on myself, she reallycomplains.
God, she’s pathetic. We’re pathetic. I’m pathetic. I don’t know. Being an omega is weird.
I sling my briefcase over my shoulder and step out of the elevator into the lobby downstairs. My penthouse sits on the upper levels of one of the few remaining Gilded Age buildings that survived demolitions and renovations in the ‘60s and became a co-op of luxury apartments. The lobby feels like the heart of it all. It’s grand and imposing, with soaring ceilings and original features that have been painstakingly preserved. A few big-brand stores occupy the ground floor, their modern displays almost jarring against the building’s old-world elegance, though they have made attempts to adapt their branding to match the overall aesthetic.
Sunlight streams through tall, arched windows, catching the dust motes in the air, and for a moment, I pause to take it in. The brass fixtures gleam, the carved wood radiates warmth, and every detail—from the intricate crown molding to the sweeping staircase in the corner—reminds me why I bought my penthouse. How could I not want to live in this kind of history and beauty? It had really hit my trust fund hard, but real estate anywhere, especially New York City, is never a bad investment. They aren’t making more land.
Besides, I have no intention of ever leaving. This is my forever home.
The crisp morning air hits me as I step outside and find Tony dutifully waiting. I shake my head. I had told him to take the morning off after working so late. This man never listens. Heacts like driving me around is his sole life’s mission. I pay him a ridiculous amount for it in return. I hope it’s enough.
